Perversions
by The Crone's Daughter
Summary: Dark tales from the characters of the movie. I feel Peter connected so well to Tom because they both shared dark and dirty dreams. I might add in more characters if a lot of people enjoy it.


Here's my first ff in a long time and its quite a perverted twist on Sweet Peter. I'm sorry for such a late post and I hope I can live up to the standards I had set so long ago. I hope you enjoy it and please tell me if you guys want more or anything I could do to improve my writing.

I'm thinking of doing POV from all of _The Talented Mr. Ripley. _Please tell me what you guys think.

P.S - John is a fictional character.

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_Peter Smith Kingsley_

Music is my passion, John. You have to understand, there's nothing left for me here, especially since you have a family now. It's good to have a passion when you're alone. Of course, money can buy new blazers, drinks and friends—but that's gotten boring for me. Alcohol loses it bite, blazers become tattered and friends become annoyances as they grip you tighter for every penny you have. That's part of the reason why I'm leaving America; its crude culture and even cruder people will not be missed by me. You do understand John, don't you?

Of course I remember Princeton and all the fun we had; the drinks and the moody insights into our depressed pasts. I remember like it was yesterday, when we first met. Our dorm room was small compared to Dickie Greenleaf's, but that boy was an ass, wasn't he? I chose the room because it was the antithesis of the vaulted ceilings and gaudy rooms of my parents' mansions while it was the only room your family could afford. You were sitting on your bed, your clothes very worn and your dark red hair was brushed to a shine. That's how you can distinguish a rich man from a poor one, John—just look at their hair. The poor must present themselves in such a way that no flaw can be found, that you can't tell that they live paycheck to paycheck in a dusty room.

But the rich, how I despise my birthright, they can dress in fine silks or rough corduroy—it doesn't make a damn difference. Their money covers their flaws like a thick concealer, and just like concealer, it dries up and creates ugly cracks.

Money cracks your soul, John. But I guess you understand that now that you're a banker. Your face is probably wearing thin now as you rub elbows with the newly rich and other powerful men in New York. Your soul is going straight to hell, though you'll see me there soon enough.

Our meeting was entertaining to say the least. You ogled all my fashionable and new wares while I listened to your brutish words about your suburban house and the cute little filly you left back home. I wonder how you talk now John; I haven't seen you in two years. I bet your rough New Yorker accent faded away to something more clean and untraceable, you probably sound like a suave gentleman from Europe.

Remember our first night? You didn't even wait for me to fall asleep before you began to touch yourself. I know the telltale whisper of sheets, the hushed breaths and the soft moans. My jock brothers and I did not share much in common, but we all knew how to pleasure ourselves.

I wonder how you felt, John, as I slid into bed with you. Did your heart skip a beat as I grabbed you cock? Yes, John, _cock_. Such a dirty word, let it roll off your lips like smoke, like fine wine. Let the word grace your lips like your cock graced mine as I took you into my mouth. Your groans of pleasure were exquisite and your glans seemed to throb against my tongue, a warm pulse on my lips. You tasted of spices and fine, vintage wine. Pity your filly wife only believes in missionary; I wonder if you're touching yourself right now, trying to feel my phantom lips on you again.

You could have had it all, John, but you threw it away for some "American Dream."

Your balls felt like crushed velvet in my hands and I smiled as I felt your tentative hands start to caress my erection. Poor John, your first suck was cut short; I guess it was my fault really. My lips are too skilled. You came in a soft torrent; you bit half moons into my thigh while your salty sperm burned in my mouth. I swallowed all of it, the taste reminding me of the present my brothers had given me only hours before I arrived on campus.

I rose from the sheets and kissed you fully, making sure you tasted your essence on my lips. You gazed at me like a lost puppy; licking your chapped lips, your gaze dropped to my prick that sat oh-so close to your face. You lunged at it with such ferocity, as if you were starved of it. I held your head and taught you how to suck. How to roll my balls in your mouth and to prolong the sensation. You grasped my buttocks while I fucked your mouth.

Dirty words are the only way to describe our nigh, John. I made sure my cock went down your throat, deep into the wet heat of your mouth before letting loose and staining your blushing face and fiery hair with my seed.

Oh John, where did our four long years go? You could have come with me to Europe, and have left that ill-tempered hussy in the suburbs. We could have had so many _delightful_ adventures. But, that's life.

I'll write soon, my dear. And please, when you write back, don't spare me any detail of how you felt reading this. I'm sure I can sate your appetite with another letter.


End file.
